


headlong

by blooddrool



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, what a delightful tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-14 01:50:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20592698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool
Summary: Crowley finds Aziraphale in the sitting room, not in his usual chair but on the couch.  He is reclined, leaning back against the armrest, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out.  No shoes, no jacket, sleeves rolled up, book propped open on his stomach.  He smiles at Crowley.  He looks damn nearedible.He looks like bait.





	1. warmed.

**Author's Note:**

> i was really just minding my own business until **[this post](https://rathernoon.tumblr.com/post/185854878643)** lit a fucking fire in me and _this_ happened.
> 
> ( chapter two will earn this fic the explicit rating !!!! i'll be adding the appropriate tags when we get there !!! )

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, sitting with his legs crossed on the floor of the bookshop, leather-bound tomes and paperbacks stacked up around him like little sentinels, “I have always wondered, well– May I ask–”

“Oh, spit it out, angel.”

“You don’t look like any of the other demons I’ve seen,” he says, dusting off yet another old book with a paintbrush. Crowley has been watching him do this for over an hour. “You never have. Not nearly as–”

“Gooey?”

“_Yes_. And–”

“Rotten?”

“Well,” Aziraphale looks up at him then, eyes bright and crinkling in the corners, “I was going to say _ swampy_, maybe, or _ sludgy_.”

Crowley picks a book out of the nearest pile and cracks it open, puts it back when he realizes it doesn’t have any pictures. He picks up another, flips through it, and collapses down at Aziraphale’s desk. “_Gooey _ and _ sludgy _ mean just about the same thing, don’t they?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale is laughing — it’s that small, private thing he does when he thinks Crowley’s being deliberately obtuse. “_Sludgy _ has more, ah,” he gestures, wiggling his fingers and wrinkling his nose, “substance. More _ texture_.”

“Sure,” Crowley shrugs, looking down at an illustration of a young girl being thrown into a volcano. Mentions of evil spirits and good crops in the margins. Promised rain, something like that. A trade with a demon — though he’s certain none of his ilk ever made a deal quite like _ that_. Mostly. He’s _ mostly _ certain. “And you’re asking why, as a demon, I am only _ slightly _ gooey and rotten and sludgy. And swampy.”

“Now, you know that’s not what I meant.”

Aziraphale is still laughing. That small, private thing. Here he is, one of Heaven’s own angels (though not a particularly favored one, at the moment), sitting on the floor in a nest of old books. All yellowed pages and faded ink. White hair. Sometimes, just sometimes, Crowley catches himself thinking about the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, the corner of his smile. He wonders (often, now, no longer just sometimes), what it would be like to live there, inside of it.

A warm place, that corner, that curl. A warm place to bask.

“It’s just not very practical,” he says, “Running about, gooping up the place. Bound to get some nasty looks, you know. Not very subtle.”

“You think you’re _ subtle_?”

“Well,” Crowley makes a face, he’s sure he does, like something between a sneer and a grimace, “Comparatively.”

Aziraphale gives him a look that is distinctly doubtful, and Crowley sticks his tongue out at him. At least he dresses for the right century. Aziraphale looks like he belongs on a postage stamp.

“What are you _ doing_, anyways?”

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale says, sweeping at another book with that same old paintbrush, “I am _ dusting_.”

“Sure, but why?” he asks, flipping through his own book until he finds another picture: an etching of a man with his throat slit, bleeding rather neatly into a metal bowl. Poor bloke. “Old books are meant to be dusty. Part of their...” he waves a hand, “_charm_, or something. You could just _ miracle _them all clean, couldn’t you?”

Aziraphale clucks his tongue, like some kind of disappointed mentor or a very large, colorful bird. He wipes one book’s cover down with a cloth, then another with a sort of spongy-looking thing. “I happen to enjoy it. And, you know what they say,” he is grinning up at Crowley now, “_cleanliness is next to_–”

“Please don’t.”

“–_Godliness_.”

Crowley groans, feels his skin do something akin to crawling. “Really, the _ cheek _ of you,” he says, “See if I ever make you another meal, mouth like that–”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to remind you of your vengeance when it inevitably slips your mind, now–”

“Oh angel, I _ resent _ that–”

“_Now_, tell me which book you’ve got over there.”

Crowley squints. He’d blink if blinking were something he did. He considers being difficult, making Aziraphale work for it. Always a fun bit of back-and-forth with him. But, because he’s never _ really _ been able to deny Aziraphale anything for long, he closes the book before him and reads off the title: “_Methods of Human Sacrifice Throughout the Ages; Gruesome, Grisly, and_– Whatever. Semicolons in titles are a damnable offense, you know.”

“Rightfully so,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley thinks he sounds awfully chipper about it, “Have I ever told you how I came about that one?”

He has, in fact.

“No,” Crowley replies.

“Ah, well, it was 1901. Lyman Frank Baum had just published _ The Wonderful Wizard of Oz _the year before– Did you ever meet him? Clever lad, so full of magic. Anyways, I was travelling through Ireland when a strange woman approached me, and…”

Crowley watches Aziraphale speak and settles in to listen.

———

Crowley learns how to make waffles.

It’s all real foreign to him, this _ food _ stuff. _ Cooking_. Six millennia on Earth and the only thing he’s ever really used his taste buds for is the occasional wine-tasting — the result of much boredom and an old desire to get drunk and look good while doing it. But, and here’s the kicker, he _ tries_. For Aziraphale, who feels no shame whatsoever in moaning his pleasure over a particularly good bite of cake or pasta or stew, Crowley tries.

He sticks to Aziraphale’s place for the cooking bits. Crowley’s flat doesn’t even have a kitchen — or, rather, it _ does_, but there's a mammillaria growing in the oven and the fridge has been claimed by some very ambitious creeping fig. Aziraphale has all the necessary utensils, anyways. Crowley’s first thought had been to manifest everything he needed from various shops and markets around the world (_not like anyone’d miss ‘em; bread knife here, cheese grater there, come on angel_) but, well, no.

_ Petty theft? How very unbecoming of you, Crowley — I must say, I am rather disappointed. _

So, _ fine _ then; he’ll do it the proper way. And if it is only because he fears Aziraphale’s _ disappointment _ more than he fears anything else– Well, that’s just between him and his plants and God.

“Done?” Aziraphale asks, flipping his newspaper open at the dining table. He looks real posh, real put together, already dressed up in his beiges and creams.

“Done,” Crowley replies. His voice is hoarse with sleep because he allows it to be — makes him feel sort of rustic. He flips one large, fluffy waffle out of the iron, onto a plate, and sets it on the table in front of Aziraphale. There’s butter, syrup, honey, blueberries, strawberries, the works, but damn it all if Crowley’s going to dress up a funky looking pancake when Aziraphale can do it just fine himself.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, setting his newspaper aside. He goes for the butter first, of course, but he doesn’t spread it over the waffle at all, just plops it down in the center and lets it melt. He’ll be doing something stupidly intricate with the fruit next, Crowley knows, but he turns away to pour himself a coffee instead of watching.

The coffee thing is new, too. Came along with the cooking. Food still doesn’t do it for him the way it does for Aziraphale (see: the _ moaning_) but he figured, somewhere along the line, that he ought to give himself something hot to sip on now that they’re here playing house. Alcohol he drinks to get drunk; the coffee, though, he’s learning to savor.

So he takes his new mug (Aziraphale’s, actually, but he hasn’t touched the thing since Crowley first got his hands on it) and sits down beside Aziraphale at the table. He squints at the small lake of syrup now on the other’s plate and takes a slow slurp of coffee. Too hot, but easily fixed with a small force of will.

“Plans for today?” he asks, watching Aziraphale cut into his waffle. He always watches this part, when Aziraphale starts to tuck in.

Aziraphale, who must surely know that Crowley always watches, closes his eyes and smiles around the first bite. He makes a soft noise that makes Crowley’s nostrils flare. “Not anything beyond the usual,” he says, “Although,” and now he’s looking a little mischievous, and Crowley feels suddenly very apprehensive, “I had thought of maybe kissing you.”

Oh. _ Oh. _

“We haven’t done that yet.”

Aziraphale continues on eating his breakfast. Like they’re discussing the weather. Or Armageddon. Something equally mundane. “Yes, well,” he shrugs, “I don’t see why that can’t change.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“No,” Aziraphale looks at Crowley like he might look at a book he’s after: calculating, appraising, fond. His fork clinks against the plate. The waffle is about half gone now. “No, not now.”

“Wh–” Crowley stops himself, slams the rest of his coffee back in one big gulp, wishes he’d had the foresight to make it Irish. He’s quieter when he continues, “When, then?”

There’s something indescribable about the look in Aziraphale’s eyes. He says, “When it feels appropriate. I will let you know.”

And that’s the end of it. Aziraphale polishes off the rest of his breakfast, and Crowley can’t stop looking at his mouth. The corner of it. Warm.

Crowley finds that he is very much _ not _ content to wait. But he does, all the same.

———

Hyde Park is quieter in the evenings. Late, when the sun is hot-orange and on its way down, the vendors lock up their carts and the visitors head home. Crowley prefers it this way. Aziraphale, Crowley is sure, knows that Crowley prefers it this way. 

Aziraphale’s led them off the path and into the grass, this time around, and that was Crowley’s first clue. He keeps quiet about it, though. If Aziraphale’s going to forge on ahead, Crowley’s certainly not going to stop him. Doesn’t know if he_ could _ stop him. And, anyways–

“And, _ anyways_, how did _ no one _ think to make copies of them all _ before _ they burned up?” Aziraphale says. Rants.

“Lot of work, that. What year was it again?”

“1731. Not like it was beyond anyone at that time to hold a _ damned _ pen.”

Crowley huffs a laugh, “You’re just upset you weren’t there to perform one of your _ frivolous _miracles.”

“I _ am _ upset,” and he sounds it, too, getting a little red in the face, “Absolutely _ ridiculous_, saving the _ Codex Alexandrinus _ but leaving _ Life of Alfred _ and _ The Battle of Maldon _ to burn.”

“Weren’t you _ at _ the battle of–”

“_Yes_, but that is hardly the same thing. The _ prose_, Crowley! The _ illustrations _! Lost in their original form! Forever!”

“Really, I don’t think–”

“So much _ history_– Lost to something as simple as a _ fire_; far more harmful to those manuscripts than to any incompetent, little–”

“No, no, please. Here,” Crowley presses a small bag into Aziraphale’s hands. Diced cucumbers, peas, corn. “Feed the ducks, angel.”

Aziraphale grasps the bag in both hands and clicks his mouth shut. Crowley thinks it’s terribly endearing. All of him is terribly endearing, of course, but he looks especially warm in this light. His hair picks up the sunset and reflects it back out, like each strand is spun from glass, from gold. Or maybe from fire. Crowley deliberately does not think of halos.

The deep green water of The Serpentine ripples around the plump bodies of the ducks, each of whom buoy and dive and look to be having an all around wonderful time. They quack their hello’s, but keep a polite distance from the shore. Very well behaved creatures. Always have been, for as long as they’ve been coming here, doing this. Better behaved than Crowley’s ever been.

Aziraphale reaches into the bag and tosses out a handful of the vegetables. The pieces _ plink _ and _ plonk _ when they hit the water, and the ducks race to scoop them up.

Aziraphale says, “Thank you.”

Crowley doesn’t say _ you’re welcome_, but he does hum and bounce on the balls of his feet. Not impatiently — or, alright, maybe a bit. He’s thinking about that kiss. The day is almost over, just a few hours left, mere minutes of sunlight. Did Aziraphale mean _ today _ as in this-day-before-midnight or _ today _ as in this-_day_? Crowley should have asked. Crowley should ask now.

He watches Aziraphale throw individual pieces to the ducks, aiming for those that haven’t yet had any, and Crowley opens his mouth to say– He doesn’t know. It’s a false start; no sound comes out of him and he just stands there, hands hanging at his sides. Fuck it all, he’s just going to ask.

He doesn’t.

The sun sets, orange turns to blue. The lamps along the walkways all flicker on, buzzing with insects and electricity, but the moon is big and full tonight. Artificial and natural light send their shadows in separate directions. He glances up at the moon, the few visible stars, feels something like kinship settle in his core, and turns the nearest lamps off with a tilt of his head.

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, sudden but quiet, low, folding the little bag up now that it’s empty.

Crowley looks at him, at his mouth, swallows but doesn’t blink. “Alright?” he asks.

Aziraphale smiles (fondly, as he so often does) and turns towards Crowley with a confidence that looks very good on him. One of his hands settles on Crowley’s arm, slides down, tugs on his sleeve, and he slips the bag into Crowley’s breast pocket with the other. Crowley doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t do anything.

And Aziraphale kisses him.

It’s simple, small. An easy press of Aziraphale’s lips against his own, slightly sticky with moisture, but warm, warm, _ warm_. Just the way Crowley thought it would be. Knew it would be. Aziraphale rises up onto the balls of his feet and their noses bump. The metal of Crowley’s glasses presses into his skin, cool compared to his core temperature, absolutely frigid compared to Aziraphale’s lips. He feels suddenly and very strongly compelled to do something with his tongue.

His hands find Aziraphale’s hips (soft, even through his trousers and belt, but very solid) and Crowley goes through the agonizing task of pulling himself away, reminds himself to breathe. “Just– _ Angel_,” he says, huffs it out with too much air and not enough sound.

Aziraphale cocks his head, and Crowley watches his eyes dart back and forth between his glasses and his mouth. “Again?” Aziraphale asks. He looks more or less unaffected; Crowley feels like all the bones in his legs have disappeared.

“_Yes_,” Crowley rasps, “_yesss_.” He reaches up, pulls his glasses off, and though his sight is no better or worse without them, he feels as though he can see every cell, every fine white hair that makes up Aziraphale’s face. He folds the glasses up and tucks them into his pocket, puts them right beside the little vegetable bag from earlier. He has no idea what his eyes look like in this moment, but the sudden dilation of Aziraphale’s gives him an idea.

  
Crowley leans into him and says, “_Again._”


	2. seared.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rating went up to explicit !!

The kissing is nice. Very nice. So nice, in fact, that Crowley finds himself slithering into Aziraphale’s space at the strangest of times. During mealtimes, with Aziraphale’s fork half-way to his mouth. Or on the street, right there in the middle of London’s bustling foot traffic, cutting Aziraphale’s rants and rambles short with his mouth. Six thousand years and Crowley has never once desired to shut Aziraphale up (not really — not even when his words ached like a broken heart, not even when his clever perception cut too deep) but, Crowley thinks, it is nice to know now that he _ can_.

And there’s a learning curve to it that Crowley just _ revels _ in. Aziraphale has taught him a million new things over the years, but never anything quite like _ this_. Never anything so delightfully _ tactile_. Thinking about it makes Crowley feel loose and slippery, makes him feel far more flexible than he should in this body. But Crowley is a quick study, eager to learn; yes, many moments find them kissing, these days.

They are kissing in this moment, too: Aziraphale in his armchair with Crowley standing before him, stooped down, braced with his hands on the arms of the chair. Crowley’s tongue is in Aziraphale’s mouth — something he figures he must have picked up mighty quick, considering how easily it gets Aziraphale sighing and humming and looking up at Crowley with those white eyelashes of his drooping low. Crowley’d call him _ supplicant _ if he didn’t know better.

There’s a book in Aziraphale’s lap, half forgotten, his thumb marking his place. Crowley wants to take its place. So he does. Pulls the book out of Aziraphale’s distracted grip, sets (_sets_, does not _throw_, much as he wants to) it to the side, climbs aboard. He straddles Aziraphale’s thighs, gets a hand up in that soft hair. It’s not the easiest fit, maybe, but neither is it uncomfortable.

Aziraphale makes a noise, something deep from his chest, settles his hands at Crowley’s hips. He feels the warm tickle of fingers sliding up under his shirt, and he has to break away from Aziraphale’s mouth before he ends up biting something.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale mumbles, almost a question, almost a plea. His lips are kiss-red and shiny, a remarkable trait of the human body that Crowley never knew to appreciate until now.

“What, doll?” he replies. He noses his way down Aziraphale’s jawline, down to his throat where he can press kisses, suck a mark. He wants to taste Aziraphale speak, wants to feel his vocal chords vibrating on his tongue.

“Tell me how sexually experienced you are,” Aziraphale says, confident and firm. He’s not asking. Crowley wonders just how bossy he’s going to get, shivers at the thought.

“‘M not,” he replies, face still tucked down, words pressed right there into Aziraphale’s skin.

He hears, feels, Aziraphale inhale. Pause. Ask, “You’re _ not_?”

Crowley hums. “_Not_. Experienced: I’m not.”

Aziraphale pushes him away with a hand on the center of his chest, just far enough to make eye contact. Crowley misses his place at his throat almost immediately, feels bereft. Like an ache.

“Not at all?” Aziraphale asks. He sounds surprised, a little suspicious.

Crowley makes a face, scrunches his nose up. “Not at all– Nothin’. ‘S not like it’s a requirement. Sex isn’t evil, angel.”

“Of course I know that, dear,” he replies, squeezes Crowley’s hip with one hand, pats his sternum with the other. He smiles, slow and easy, “It was rude of me to assume. It’s just– Well, with the way you walk, I always thought that–”

“The way I– The way I _ walk_?”

“Oh yes.” There’s laughter in his voice now. Teasing mirth. Crowley feels heat in the tips of his ears.

“What is it I walk like, then?”

Crowley knows he’s going to dread the answer even before Aziraphale opens his mouth.

And Aziraphale says, shaking with his laughter now, utterly gleeful, “Like an absolute _ floozy_, dear boy.”

Crowley goes red, kisses him just to make him _ shut up_.

———

They did not have sex that evening. Crowley wishes they had. He thinks about it often: that conversation, that kiss. He catches himself thinking about a lot of things now.

Thinks about his mouth on other places besides Aziraphale’s lips. Thinks about Aziraphale’s hands gripping, pulling, pushing. Thinks about Aziraphale’s voice. _ Telling_, not asking.

But Aziraphale treats him just the same as he always has. Considerate and kind. The kissing hasn’t stopped, but neither has it changed. Crowley can’t get his hands on much more than Aziraphale’s clothed hips before he’s being pushed away. It’s agonizing, and Crowley is convinced that Aziraphale is doing it on purpose. Purposefully chaste, purposefully gentle.

Crowley wonders how long he is meant to wait.

“Angel?” he calls, balancing a hot mug of cocoa in his hand as he exits the kitchen.

“In here, darling,” comes the reply.

Crowley finds him in the sitting room, not in his usual chair but on the couch. He is reclined, leaning back against the armrest, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out. No shoes, no jacket, sleeves rolled up, book propped open on his stomach. He smiles at Crowley. He looks damn near _ edible_.

He looks like bait.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the mug from Crowley when he holds it out. He brings it to his nose first, breathes deep the scent of chocolate and warm sugar, closes his eyes and hums. When he takes a sip, froth clings to his upper lip.

Oh yes, Crowley thinks, sitting himself down by Aziraphale’s knee, _ bait_. Or a trap, more like. Pale yellow glue trap, sticky like the honey Aziraphale takes in his tea.

But perhaps, in this moment, Crowley is happy to ignore his instincts.

He watches Aziraphale for a long moment. Watches him drink his cocoa, read his book. Watches him ignore Crowley completely. He feels obvious without his glasses, but _ obvious _ has never been a problem with Aziraphale.

When Aziraphale finally puts his mug down, closes his book, Crowley feels about ready to jump him.

Then, with that clever, knowing look in his eye, Aziraphale says, “Alright,” and Crowley _ does_.

He surges forward, gets his mouth on Aziraphale’s own, on that infuriating smile. Climbs onto the couch in a graceless scramble, fitting himself between Aziraphale’s legs. _ Alright_, he’d said. One word and Crowley feels like an old dam: cracking, chipping, breaking. Really, the things his angel does to him. It’s so _ much. _Like over-filling. Like spilling out. Crowley wants to just fall apart with it.

Wants to fall apart with him.

It makes him swallow hard, that thought. He huffs a breath against Aziraphale’s lips. Says, “Can we– Please, can we– _ Aziraphale_,” all in one long exhale.

Aziraphale kisses the tip of his nose. “Yes, I think so. Take your shirt off, love. And your shoes.”

Crowley moans. He can’t help it. He shimmies down the couch to make room, starts with his shoes. He considers wishing them away, wishing _all_ their clothes away, but Aziraphale– _Oh_ _God in Heaven, Lord in Hell,_ Aziraphale is watching him, popping one vest button open at a time. Slow, deliberate. He’s not wearing his tie.

Crowley kicks his shoes off, socks too, for good measure. Pulls his shirt up over his head. Doesn’t know what to do with himself so he watches Aziraphale’s hands. Watches him sit forward, shrug his vest off, unbutton his shirt. But he doesn’t take it off — just lets it hang open and Crowley feels like he could _ cry_.

He whines instead, a high noise from up in his throat. There’s another _ please _ on his tongue, just waiting to trip out, and he’s reaching out with his hands when Aziraphale catches them, catches him. Warm hands on his bare shoulders (and _ oh_, what _ heat_), pushing him down, down, down until Crowley is the one on his back and Aziraphale is kneeling over him.

And it’s– It’s like– Crowley is feeling things he’s never felt before.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and there’s something like wonder on his face, in his hushed tone, “Oh, Crowley.”

Maybe, Crowley thinks, this is where he ought to say _ I told you so_, but then Aziraphale’s mouth is on his throat and he can’t do much more than groan.

It’s hot and wet, Aziraphale’s mouth. Already almost too much. Like thermal shock. He’s sucking and biting at Crowley’s collar bones, down his sternum, like he’s on the warpath, and Crowley blearily realizes that Aziraphale knows what he’s doing. (He knew he would, he did, but the reality of it is– The reality of it has thick, fuzzy heat pooling in his pelvis.)

Aziraphale’s hands smooth down Crowley’s gut in one firm, dry slide, and his fingers hook around the waistband of his trousers. Crowley feels the button of his fly pop and then Aziraphale’s teeth are around his nipple and he damn near _ yowls_. Squirming, writhing, gripping at the couch until Aziraphale pins him still with his hands on his hips.

“Easy, easy,” Aziraphale says, sitting back. He’s grinning, the bastard, looking all kinds of smug, all kinds of beautiful. His chest is flushed, that pale slice that Crowley can see. His hands go back to Crowley’s trousers, and then he’s peeling them off and Crowley knows he’s going red.

He’s hard. Curled up against his stomach, his cock is _ hard_. It’s not new (not really — a human body is a human body, after all), but here, with Aziraphale over him, Crowley feels much smaller than he is, much meeker.

He feels a bit like prey.

Aziraphale descends on him again. Kisses a line down the center of his stomach. Until Crowley feels his breath against his cock.

“Crowley,” he says. Mumbles it, but, _ ah_, Crowley can _ feel _ it.

“Y– Uh,” Crowley swallows, tries again, “Yes, darl’?”

Aziraphale is looking up at him, blue eyes through white eyelashes. “I’m going to suck you, you’re going to suck my fingers, and then I’m going to finger you open, yes?”

And then his mouth is on Crowley’s cock and oh _ Lucifer, Mother of_–

“_Fuck_–”

Open, hot, wet. Crowley gets his hands in Aziraphale’s hair, twists it tight around his fingers, tries not to lose himself. First touch from _ anyone _ and it’s Aziraphale’s _ tongue_. It feels like Falling a second time. It feels like being Forgiven.

Aziraphale works his mouth around the head of Crowley’s cock and he can barely hear the noises he’s making. Barely cares. Lets his head fall back against the arm of the couch, closes his eyes, and when three fingers tap at his chin he opens for them, jaw slack with a moan.

The pads of Aziraphale’s fingers are soft against his tongue, tasting only like clean skin. Those fingers flex, hooking over his teeth, and then Aziraphale is bobbing his head down and Crowley wants to _ bite_. It’s a yearning in his teeth, an ache, an aborted thrust of his hips, held down by Aziraphale’s free hand. He sucks hard at Aziraphale’s fingers instead, gathering spit, and Aziraphale — oh, _ fuck _ —_mimics _ him. Crowley doesn’t know how that’s supposed to be fair. Doesn’t know how he’s supposed to last.

But the fingers pull out of his mouth just like that, shiny-wet and long. Aziraphale drags himself off Crowley’s cock, gets his dry hand around it instead. His mouth is red when Crowley looks at him, and he could come right then and there if it weren’t for Aziraphale’s eyes on him. Wanting, waiting.

“I’m– I’m good, I’m fine, angel,” Crowley mumbles. He’s sweating around the temples; so is Aziraphale. “Please, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

He’s not exactly sure what he’s asking for. Only that he wants it, whatever it is, whatever Aziraphale will give him. His cock is ruddy and especially dark wrapped in Aziraphale’s pale hand. Looks painful — isn’t.

Wet fingers against his inner thigh, and Crowley can’t bear to look anymore. He swallows hard, stares up at the ceiling. He feels Aziraphale’s laugh more than he hears it, and then there’s warm, slick pressure around the rim of him, around that intimate place that he never dreamt anyone could– That anyone would–

“_Aziraphale_.”

“Alright, dear.”

It’s that word again that makes Crowley hiss. Hiss even louder when one wet finger _ pushes_, stretches him out, sinks down into him. Just one knuckle, but it’s unlike anything Crowley’s ever felt before. Makes his eyes roll back, makes his cock twitch. Just that little bit. He feels like he’s on fire.

He feels Aziraphale’s mouth on his hip bone like an echo, far away but persistent, but he bites down as he pushes his finger in deeper, and Crowley bucks, moans. It’s wetter than it should be, the push in, the pull out, but he can’t dwell on it long before Aziraphale is easing him open with a second finger.

And it’s– Oh, _ this_. Crowley _ gets _ this. The burn of it. The stretch when Aziraphale flexes his fingers, spreads them. He bends them forward and hits something that makes Crowley shake, gasp, and then backs off of it entirely. He’s sucking a mark into Crowley’s stomach, some dark, purple thing that Crowley will be happy to keep, and it’s like a lull. Crowley melts into it, relaxes, and Aziraphale hums at him from low in his chest.

Adds a third finger, makes Crowley whine. Seems to delight in it, pressing his grin right into Crowley’s gut.

By the time he pulls them out, Crowley thinks he might be drooling. His cock certainly is, and there’s a buzzing at the base of his spine, all pressure and heat, a new emptiness, a new fullness.

“Crowley, darling,” Aziraphale says, leaning back up to press a kiss to Crowley’s jaw, “Let me fuck you.”

It’s a question, a request (Crowley _ knows _ it’s a question) but the way he says it– _ Oh_, does it make his toes curl. _ Telling, not asking. _

“Uh huh,” he breathes, “Yeah, yes. _ Love _ it if you would.”

Aziraphale beams at him, kisses him square on the mouth. Crowley hears the clink of a belt, the draw of a zipper. A rustle of fabric, but he can feel the coolness of the belt against his thigh when Aziraphale draws them up around his waist. The open flaps of his shirt hang down, pool on Crowley’s skin like a liquid, and Crowley spreads his hands out flat against Aziraphale’s chest. Soft and solid.

The blunted press of Aziraphale’s cock, when it comes, is– It’s a lot. The slow push in is even more. _ More _ in the most animal sense; something that coils tight around his reptilian brain, something that slithers up through him. Crowley chokes on it, gapes and gasps and gurgles. Chokes on the feeling of Aziraphale — _ oh, blessed Aziraphale _ — pushing down into him. Into him, into him, into him. Stretching him, carving out a place for himself. Inside.

Until.

Seated, sheathed, still. 

Aziraphale shudders out a sigh. A sigh like he’s hurting. A sigh like he’s healing. A sigh like he’s coming home. His brow is furrowed, sweat on his throat, pupils blown out wide, and he’s– Beautiful. He is _ beautiful_.

Crowley squeezes him with his legs and squeezes around Aziraphale’s cock, too. It makes everything a little blurry, makes Aziraphale grunt, twitch, grind his teeth — Crowley can hear it even over the beating of his own heart in his ears.

And then Aziraphale is _ moving_, sliding back, and Crowley is scrambling to hold on to something because if he doesn’t– If he doesn’t, he thinks he might just shatter apart. He gets Aziraphale’s shirt in one fist, his curly hair in the other, and when Aziraphale thrusts back into him he _ yowls_, baring his throat, panting. He’s already– It’s already– Crowley is full to bursting, he’s sure of it: up in the core of him, in his chest, and his cock feels like it’s _ pulsing_, dark with blood and _ wet_. So wet he can feel the slide of it when it hits his stomach, when Aziraphale thrusts into him again. Again. Again.

And Crowley knows it’s too early but there’s a tightness in his belly and in his spine and in his balls that he doesn’t know how to ignore. Aziraphale must know it, too, because he comes down, lowers himself over Crowley so that he can push his nose under Crowley’s chin, breathe him in. Whisper right into his jugular.

“You can,” Aziraphale says, using his hips and his grip on Crowley’s waist like punctuation, “You can, you can.”

And then he grips Crowley’s cock in one hand, wraps him in warmth and fills him with it too (again, again) and Crowley feels_ helpless_. Crowley feels– He feels–

He comes.

It rips through him like a storm, his orgasm. A crash of thunder. A flood. He arches off the couch, feels the upholstery beneath his hair and scalp, feels Aziraphale’s mouth on his throat, fucking him through it. He thinks he makes a noise, _ knows _ he makes a noise, but he can’t hear it. Doesn’t really care to.

He’s shaking.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale breathes, and it sounds so much like a prayer that Crowley’s breath hitches and stops. Starts again on a gasp when Aziraphale moves inside of him.

Aziraphale tries to pull out of him, then. The length of him is still hot and hard — hotter and harder now, maybe, that Crowley’s come is splattered thick and white between them — and Crowley clamps down on him, clings, locks his ankles behind Aziraphale’s back and _ keeps _ him there. Keeps him inside. Hisses when Aziraphale tries to shift away a second time.

“_Stay_,” Crowley mumbles. He turns his face into Aziraphale’s hair, “Fuck me. _ Sssstay_.”

“You dear, _ darling _ boy,” Aziraphale says. He’s panting, sweating. He slides one arm under Crowley’s waist, hooks the other under one of his knees, hikes it up, bends Crowley damn near in half. Crowley feels crushed underneath him. Delightfully, lovingly _ crushed _ beneath his angel’s weight and power and strength.

Strength which he uses now: a slow, rolling thrust that strikes Crowley _ just right_. Strikes that special thing inside him that makes him shake, gasp, _ keen_. He’s so sensitive, of course he is, but he feels _ seared_. Burned. Raw, like new skin after a shed. But full — so _ full _ and warm and lit up from the inside.

It lulls him, groggy from his orgasm, wrung dry, so that all he can do is take it, take it, take it. Gasp up at the ceiling or into Aziraphale’s hair. Close his eyes and try not to shake right out of skin as Aziraphale rocks into him, nestles himself in deep, uses Crowley up.

When Aziraphale kisses him, Crowley can only open for him, slack and wet and pliant. It’s messy, easy as breathing, and Crowley whines when Aziraphale licks at his teeth. Whines a little louder when his thrusts drive deeper, harder, when he makes Crowley see stars.

He could– _ God, yes, _ he could stay like this forever. He could, _ he could_, and the thought of it, the thought of Aziraphale fucking him just like this– Just like this until the end of time, until their bodies break down and go back to the cosmos… _Oh_, it makes Crowley _ flutter_. Eyelashes, heartbeat. Outside, inside.

And then Aziraphale comes. Just like that. A warm seeping, a moan poured straight into Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley swallows it down. And drifts.

———

_ After _ is a lazy, drawn out thing. Aziraphale cleans them up — of course he does — and Crowley refuses to move from his place on the couch. Not for anything. Aziraphale calls him uncooperative, calls him _ entirely unhelpful_, but also calls him lovely (twice), and Crowley is happy to sink down into the cushions and ignore him. Just to watch him fret.

Crowley ends up with a fluffed pillow and blanket thrown over him, naked still, but _ warm_. Aziraphale sits by his head on the floor. He’s put himself back together, but not completely. An extra button left undone, hair gone wild. Marks on his throat. He’s carding his fingers through Crowley’s hair, leaned over him like a man at worship, and Crowley is boneless.

“I quite enjoyed that,” Aziraphale says, quiet, like he’s speaking to himself.

Crowley grunts.

“Yes, I know you did as well,” he scratches at a place by Crowley’s temple, “And you were delightful. _ Are_, even now. You shine with it, you know.”

“Shiniest boy you ever knew,” Crowley mumbles. He wants to sleep; he wants Aziraphale to never stop.

“Oh yes,” he sounds like he means it, “You certainly are.”

There’s a pause. Crowley sighs, deep and long, and Aziraphale brushes his thumb along the arch of Crowley’s brow bone.

“We’re going out for dinner tomorrow,” he says, soft. “Cioppino, Italian bread, a nice dry rosé. Or a red, if you prefer. Tomatoes and Sangiovese,” and here is where Aziraphale takes a breath, hesitates, just for a moment, “Yes?”

_ Ah_, Crowley thinks, there it is. He turns into the hand at his face, kisses Aziraphale’s pale wrist.

“Yes,” he says, right there against his skin, “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the working title for this fic was "floozy"


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